I have to question whether I am becoming my father.
Okay. To make that make sense I have to explain that on one occasion my father locked my mother-in-law out of his kitchen, because nothing else would stop her from helping. Dad was hosting a holiday dinner for… 20 people, maybe, including my family, my husband’s family, and several of his own sisters. As always with productions like this he had the whole thing planned like a military operation. And my utterly wonderful mother-in-law kept helping, often assuming that she knew what needed to be done, without asking. Which lead to plans and procedures being gummed up, and my father’s increasing exasperation. She was deaf to my father’s pleas that she go enjoy herself and (unspoken) not get in his goddamned way. Finally he blocked access to the kitchen to everyone but me (who was trained in his ways).
I am sympathetic to both parties: I was raised to believe that a good guest offers more than once to help (and I share some of my M-I-L’s “I help therefore I am” impulses). On the other hand, if you’ve planned a big dinner down to the last gherkin, having to repeatedly stop your flow to explain what you need, or how what seems to be a great way to help is actually going to gum up the works, can be…exasperating.
Christmas dinner is looming. 11 people (plus a visiting dog), all beloved family. Because there are various dietary issues (two people are gluten-intolerant, three people have serious tree-nut allergies, one requires a lower-fat diet, one doesn’t eat red meat) and preferences (my own sainted husband doesn’t like chocolate or coconut) I thought carefully about what the menu was going to be. And then my younger daughter attempted, in the nicest possible way, to drive a truck through my plans. Because she likes to cook (and her kitchen is tiny and not fun to work in), and because she wants to help. And I had to come down heavily on my impulse to snarl “back off!” I took a step back and let her propose things, knowing that several of her ideas would run up against the dietary needs of some of the other guests. It’s a negotiation, ongoing
And then I talked to my sister-in-law, who wanted to bring many things. We walked about what would fit with what I had planned, and settled on several of her favorite things to make. It is safe to say that no one will go home hungry (and as I pointed out, no one ever complains that there are too many different desserts at Christmas). I appreciate her willingness to advocate for herself and those she loves.
Look: no one wants to go to a meal where the only thing they can eat is crackers and peanut butter–the culinary equivalent of being wheelchair-bound and invited to a party in a non-accessible building. But there is nothing to say that you can’t have stairs and a ramp, or prime rib and tofu. (I dislike tofu, but will struggle it down if that’s the only thing on offer–but I don’t want anyone to feel like their only choice is to close their eyes and think of Julia Child.) And at some point I think it is permissible to say “I take everyone’s preferences and needs into account, but I AM HOSTING THIS DAMNED MEAL”. I plan to have enough different foods that someone can say “no thanks” to one thing without fearing they will waste away from inanition.
But that’s just the preliminaries. The day comes (the house is prepped, presents will have been opened, and I will have scheduled oven-space and timing). I have learned that it is useful to have half a dozen satellite tasks I can assign–from “could you light the candles” to “the serving utensils are over there, can you put those out?” Things that are small enough that I can do them if I need to, but that can be done by someone else without gumming up the works in my not-overly large kitchen. Ways to let people help without slowing me down.
I will not lock anyone out (in fact, it’s not physically possible unless I get a 4×8 sheet of plywood and prop it across the doorway) but I might have to occasionally point out that space in the kitchen is tight and people need to be somewhere else. And I am making a public vow, right here, that I will hold on to my faith that help is kindly meant (and not a criticism) no matter how distracting it is, and I will appreciate that help.
But you can see why I think I’m becoming my father. Just a little.